


Drowning in the Past

by IndigoDream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst and Feels, Bad Parenting, Blood Magic, Blood and Injury, Child Death, Child Neglect, Childhood Memories, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fae & Fairies, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Internalized Homophobia, Lots of bad things, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Repressed Memories, coming to terms with sexuality, just a bad dad tbh, mention of child rape, post show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoDream/pseuds/IndigoDream
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier have been reunited for a few months now, after Geralt apologized for what he said on the mountain. Cirilla is safe with Yennefer, and Geralt and Jaskier are traveling together again. Things are going great, brilliant even, until Geralt goes on a hunt alone for a few days, the first since they reunited.When Geralt's return prompts an unexpected confession, Jaskier panics and memories of his childhood resurfaces.There are lots of things that Jaskier has to confront to be himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 315





	Drowning in the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello~ 
> 
> This fic has some heavy triggering material, so please read the tags! The triggering material is mostly in italics, so be careful with those moments. 
> 
> In other news: this was supposed to be just about Jaskier realizing he is gay. Not... all of this lmao But i'm really proud of this fic, which is in my docs as "Gayskier" to match with "Dadskier". Do I have a thing for hurting Jaskier and then giving him love? Absolutely. 
> 
> I hope you'll all enjoy this! It was immensely interesting to write. 
> 
> PS: Shout out to my friend Enkelimagnus for talking to me about Critical Role and Mollymauk and inspiring me for... something you'll see in the fic ;)
> 
> PS2: shout out to [WingedQuill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill/works) who wrote an amazing and wonderful story that we lovingly call [ Gayralt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24046216), which isn't in the same verse as this one but definitely inspired it!

Jaskier is fiddling with his drink, agitated as he looks around and waits for Geralt to come back. His friend has been gone for two days on his hunt now, and while it's not that unusual, it hasn't happened ever since they were reunited. 

Cintra's fall happened a year ago now. The dragon hunt had been two months before that. Which means that they had been separated and in less than friendly terms for ten months. They had found each other by chance two months ago, after Geralt had taken the young Cirilla to Yennefer of Vengerberg's house. 

Apologies had been exchanged, although it had mostly been Geralt groveling for Jaskier's forgiveness, and they were now back to traveling together. Truth be told, Jaskier had missed Geralt's company for those ten months. He was used to not seeing Geralt during the winter, and it had happened that they had missed one another for a few weeks come spring, but it had been a long time since they hadn't seen each other for so long. Perhaps since between the banquet in Cintra and the ghastly incident in Rinde. 

"Ye worried for the witcher, mister bard?" 

The woman speaking to him is young, plump and delicate, and she looks just his type. Which is hardly an hard feat to accomplish: any woman that looks to be interested in him is his type. 

"I'm sure he'll be back, mister bard." The woman smiles and pours him another glass of wine. "On the house, mister." 

He nods and gives her a small smile, and she blushes and moves away with a hundred more looks towards him. It's not hard to guess what she wants from Jaskier, and he damns the fact that his reputation precedes him always. He doesn't have the time to fool around, not when Geralt could walk in at any point, in need of help. Jaskier has seen Geralt's faster-than-human metabolism heal in action, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry anyway. He will always worry for Geralt. After all, he is his best friend, isn’t he? He would be a terrible friend if he didn’t worry when the witcher goes to hunt. 

His fingers are drumming an unsettling rhythm, something close to the funeral march he remembers for his grandmother’s funeral when he was younger, and he whistles the notes under his breath. He hadn’t even had the heart to play the previous night. It hasn’t happened often, him being unwilling to play is a rare sight in truth. But he hadn’t rested easily after Geralt’s departure, their shared bed too large and empty. 

They have shared their bed in inns out of need to keep the meagre coins they managed to amass ever since Posada, and in the few months they had been separated, Jaskier had found it hard to find sleep. Whenever he had been separated from Geralt before, it had only kept him from sleep for the first few nights, until he could find someone to warm his bed. He supposes that this time had been different since he had thought it the end of his adventures with Geralt, the end of his friendship. Even bedding women had had no relieving effect. 

The door opens, and Geralt staggers inside, holding against him a trophy of his latest hunt. From the look of it, Jaskier is quite ready to assume that this was a nest of nekkers, but it mustn’t have been close considering the two days it took Geralt. Should Jaskier have gone with him? 

Geralt nods to Jaskier, and then looks around, seeing the man who gave him the contract sitting at one of the table. Blood cakes the witcher’s face, and his left leg seems in a bad shape as he limps towards the table. He tosses the necker’s head on wooden table and exchanges a few words with the man, before gathering a small pouch of coin. 

Before he can turn around, Jaskier is at his side, passing an arm underneath Geralt’s left shoulder and taking some of his weight off him. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes in relief. “Everything alright?” 

“I’m not the one with dried blood all over myself and a limp,” Jaskier mutters and turns himself away from the table, Geralt following the movement. “Come on, let’s clean you up and look at that wound of yours.” 

The witcher chuckles and presses his head against Jaskier’s hair. He seems exhausted, and Jaskier wonders if he took the time to rest properly before the hunt. He had told Jaskier he would be coming back as fast as he could, but does that mean he rushed into it so that it could be done sooner? Jaskier doesn’t want to consider it. 

“Bring up a bath,” he orders to the woman who had been flirting with him earlier. 

“One is already on its way, mister bard,” the woman smiles slightly. “Will you require anything else?” 

Glancing at the wounded and exhausted witcher at his side, Jaskier runs through the items he has in his pack, and those he is likely to find in Geralt’s as well. There isn’t anything he truly needs that he lacks, but… 

“If you can find me some chamomile oil and some poppy seed milk, I’ll pay you double what you spent for those,” he says, his grip on Geralt’s tightening. “As fast as you can, please.” 

“I know where to find those, mister bard,” the woman nods and rushes off as Jaskier starts to walk up the stairs with Geralt. 

“She’s sweet on you,” the witcher observes in a whisper, his breath making air rush on Jaskier’s ears. “What about you? You like her?” 

“I’m more concerned about you than anything else at the moment,” Jaskier grunts. “How bad is that wound on your leg, Geralt? You aren’t putting any weight on it.” 

“Just gotta close the wound, stitch it up, and wait until the morning. I’ll be all fine by then, if I take the right potion.” 

Jaskier huffs out a strangled laughter. “All fine? You are saying you need stitches and you call that ‘all fine’? Sweet Melitele, Geralt! If you got hurt so badly, why didn’t you patch it up a bit before coming back? You might have worsened the situation now!” 

“Had to get back to you,” Geralt rasps as they finish climbing the stairs and find the bathing room. “Told you I would be back quickly.” 

“Stupid, stubborn witcher,” the bard swears and makes Geralt sit down on a stool. “You just had to come back in one piece, not to come back in less than three days! I would rather you be alright than I have to patch you up.” 

“Thought you would enjoy to see me hurt, after every—“ 

“Don’t ever say that,” Jaskier orders him sternly, taking his face in his hands. “We are friends. What happened on that mountain is in the past, and I don’t ever want to see you hurt. Get those fucking ideas out of your head.” 

Geralt chuckles softly and nods. His eyes are gentle, exhaustion filling them, and Jaskier lets go of him. 

“Alright, any wounds beside the leg that we need to fix before you can bath?” 

Behind them, a boy is pouring steaming hot water in the large tub, but Jaskier ignores him, his eyes wandering on Geralt’s form to make sure he isn’t missing any wounds. The armour covering Geralt’s chest and arms is reasonably well maintained still, a few gashes in it but nothing that shows any skin or blood, but there are a few scratches that are still vivid with blood on his arms. Other than that, there is nothing particularly worrisome on Geralt’s torso and arms. The only real wound that Jaskier has to pay attention to is the one on his leg then, good. 

“Not anything I can see, but what’s your opinion, doctor?” Geralt’s voice is raspy and low, and it fills the air, the rushing sound of the water almost forgotten for Jaskier. This is a new voice, something Jaskier has never heard directed towards him. Maybe with Yennefer, or one of the girls Geralt had flirts with throughout the years… Well, Geralt must be getting more comfortable with him then. Jaskier is glad for that.

“Don’t tease when I’m worried about you, you idiot,” he scolds and starts helping Geralt out of his armour. 

It takes a few minutes for them to manage to undo the leather straps, since Jaskier is insistent that Geralt stays sitting and unmoving as much as possible. When it’s done, the bath is finally ready, and Jaskier wraps an arm around Geralt’s waist, half lifting the witcher in his arms. Said witcher lets out a disgruntled noise, half of a surprised gasp if Jaskier really wants to categorize it. 

“You know I can still walk, right? I walked from the nekkers’ nest till here.” Geralt says as Jaskier helps him get into the tub. “I’m not dead just yet.” 

“Don’t talk about that,” Jaskier snaps, angry at the mere thought of Geralt dying. He _just_ got his friend back. He isn’t losing him anytime soon. “You’re not dying. I’m just helping my friend, so shut up and let me do this.” 

Geralt looks at him, surprised, and then there is a gentle light in his eyes, a soft upturn to his mouth. If Jaskier didn’t know Geralt half as well as he does now, he would miss it, but he doesn’t, so he smiles back and starts helping Geralt with the washing. They clean the wounds on his upper body first, Jaskier making sure there is no infection. Letting Geralt soak in the water, he runs back to their room, gathering his pack and rummaging through Geralt’s to find the right ointments, before he is returning to Geralt in his bath. 

“-about you and mister Jaskier, master witcher,” a voice, the woman from earlier Jaskier is pretty sure, is saying. “I would never have behaved like that if I had known!” 

He walks back in just as Geralt is chuckling and nodding. “What’s going on?” 

The young woman blushes slightly and extends to Jaskier a small bag. “Here is what you requested, mister bard! On the house, to apologize for my earlier behaviour!” 

She runs off after that, and Jaskier stares after her. “That was quite odd, wasn’t it?” 

Geralt shrugs, laying back down from the sitting position he had been in. He draws his knees back away from himself, and winces as the large tear on his left leg is splashed with water. This is the first time Jaskier is seeing it properly, and it’s an ugly gash. The skin isn’t cut evenly, the edges of the wound are ragged, and dirt and mud have pushed their way into the chair. He grimaces as well and takes out the small bottle of poppyseed milk. 

“What’s that?” Geralt frowns as Jaskier comes to sit next to him, but Jaskier is closing his eyes and focusing on the bottle in his hands. “Jaskier?” 

The bard shushes him and opens an eye to glare at him before focusing again. He hasn’t done this in such a long time, he isn’t even sure he can still do it. Dragging the pain-relieving properties of the poppyseed milk is something he used to do before meeting Geralt, when he had still been too young to correctly protect himself against the poison of some foods. 

Descendants of fae don’t always have their magic, but Jaskier had inherited it through his mother, albeit to such a small degree he couldn’t do much more than be impeded by his magic and be poisoned by some human foods. His heritage is so faint, he is only an eighth of a fae, and yet he is bothered by nearly all that bothers fae. The only thing that he has escaped to is silver; although the metal doesn’t burn him, it does tend to make him lightheaded. 

“You’re using chaos,” Geralt’s voice is shocked, but not angry, and Jaskier breathes out in relief as he feels the milk finally shifting under his hands. “What are you doing?” 

“Helping you with the pain,” Jaskier grunts and finishes the milk’s transformation, before shoving it into Geralt’s hand. “Come on, drink this.” 

Geralt gives him one long glance, before nodding and drinking it. Jaskier waits almost impatiently as Geralt drinks, and he finds his eyes turning to watch Geralt’s throat working at swallowing the milk. He finds himself suddenly longing for water and looks away, back to the gash on the witcher’s leg. Delicately, he grabs the sponge from his pack and starts washing the wound. The water quickly turns brown from the mix of blood and mud that trickles into it, but Jaskier doesn’t stop. 

Quickly after drinking the milk, Geralt’s eyelids start falling down, the poppyseed turning him sleepy and groggy, which means that Jaskier is going to be able to take better care of his wounds. For that, Jaskier is grateful, and he finishes cleaning the deep gash in his leg before grabbing the needle and thread he keeps for such a purpose in his pack.

“You’ve got such soft hands,” Geralt murmurs when Jaskier is halfway through closing the wound, and the bard freezes a bit. “Always so gentle and nice, even when I’m an asshole and I treat you like shit… I don’t deserve you.” 

“Don’t say nonsense like this,” Jaskier sighs and keeps going. He must have activated the poppyseed a bit too much if Geralt is relaxed enough to say whatever goes through his mind. He knows it’s a possible side effect, but Jaskier has never really had anyone else than himself drink the poppyseed milk concoction, so it could be simply that he did something wrong for a human. 

“Not nonsense,” Geralt yawns and his head lulls to the side, watching Jaskier tenderly. “I love when you touch me. You are always so gentle… I love when I’m with you.” 

Again, Jaskier freezes. What is Geralt saying? This can’t be happening. He has to finish stitching up Geralt and get out of here as fast as possible. He can’t listen to what Geralt is saying. He did something wrong, this— 

“I love you, you know?” Geralt’s voice is so small, full of fear and awe, both at the same time. “You are so strong, despite everything, and you are a wonder… It’s no wonder everyone that you meet falls for you, because you are just… You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen, and definitely the best one as well. You take care of me, even when I don’t deserve it, and your voice… It’s beautiful too. Everything about you is wonderful, and you deserve to be told that every day, to be worshipped and loved… I can’t bear the idea of anyone else doing it, but I know I can’t choose for you. I wish you’d choose me…” 

Geralt yawns deeply and then closes his eyes, looking to be falling asleep. Halfway through stitching him, Jaskier is frozen in time. What the hell is Geralt going on about? He can’t love him. They are… They are _friends_. They are two _men_. They can’t love each other. Regardless of it all, Geralt is in love with Yennefer. He bound himself to her. There is no chance that this is Geralt’s real feelings, Jaskier must have done something wrong with the poppyseed milk, he has to correct whatever he did. He can’t leave Geralt like this.

His hand holding the needle shaking, Jaskier tries to finish the stitching as calmly as possible, before applying one of Geralt’s ointment on the wound and helping the man out of the bath. The witcher is still too groggy to do much on his own, so Jaskier helps him get dressed again. He walks him back to their room, ignoring the way Geralt nuzzles at his neck and sighs contentedly. 

Jaskier tries to tell himself that he doesn’t flee after, but there is no other words to explain it. He rushes outside, ignoring a question from the woman who brought him the milk and oil earlier. He needs to get away, to put as much distance as possible between himself and Geralt, just for a moment. 

The trees that surround him are unfamiliar, but Jaskier has always had an affinity for the forest, so he simply climbs up one of the trees and settles himself in between the branches of the oak, trying to forget Geralt’s words. 

_Elias’ eyes had shone brightly in the summer’s sun, and Jaskier— no, not Jaskier yet— Julian, had blushed brightly, happily. Elias had been so nice, so kind, and Julian had loved spending time with him, playing games of tag, but his favourite had been hide and seek. They never really did the seeking part, but Julian didn’t mind. Because when they hid from their parents, Julian and Elias held hands, and it made butterflies burst in Julian’s stomach. Once, Elias had even kissed his cheek, and Julian had thought there could be not be anything better. He had been wrong._

_Julian had been a naive twelve years old boy, but Elias had been so sweet, so beautiful, and when his lips had brushed Julian’s shyly, it had been a revelation. Julian had pressed his own against Elias’ quickly, and they had giggled a bit. They were so happy then, hiding in the bushes underneath the great oak tree that guarded the entrance of the Pankratz manor._

Jaskier breathes heavily, trying to will the memories to go away, but they are too strong, strangling him and making him wonder if he will ever be free from them again. He chokes on the air that doesn’t want to come through his lungs, and he falls, hands long gone grasping at him and tearing him apart. 

_They had only kissed twice before he had caught them. Julian’s father was a tall man, full of ire and self-righteousness, and Julian was afraid of him, but he couldn’t let him know that. Julian was still so small then, barely reaching half of his father’s chest. He couldn’t wait to grow up, to be able to escape his father’s grip on his neck, so tight it squeezed tears out of his eyes._

_“What do you think you are doing, boy?” The viscount of Lettenhove had roared, and Julian had tried to move away, but he was suspended mid-air by the angry clasp of the man. “Are you even more of a disgusting freak than I thought you were?”_

_Julian had cried out, had tried to protest that they were just playing, but his father hadn’t cared. He had been tossed aside, a discarded doll thrown to the ground, and then his father had his hands on Elias’ neck, and he was squeezing and shouting, but Julian had been weak, too weak, he hadn’t been able to do anything but scream._

His own childhood screams echo through the woods as Jaskier hits the forest’s floor roughly, feeling sticks and leaves sticking to his skin and piercing it in some places. He crawls on the floor, the looming presence of his father biting into his flesh as he tries to find refuge in the trees, tries to escape his memories. 

_“Look at what you did, Julian,” his father had told him that evening, pointing at the great oak where Elias’ limp body hung. “This is all your fault. If you had just listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened. Men love women, you hear me?”_

_“Yes, father,” Julian had answered, unable to tear his eyes away from the body of his friend. “Men love women.”_

_“Come now, I have a surprise for you.” His father had led him away then, back to his room. “Go in.”_

_Julian had hesitated, but he hadn’t dared disobey his father again, not with the marks that bloomed already on his neck and shoulders. He had pushed the door open, and a woman had been sitting on his bed, wearing little clothes and looking bored as she looked around._

_“Go be a man,” his father had forced him to move forward, and he had closed the door behind himself, watching as the prostitute he had hired pushed Julian’s clothes away from him._

The tears on Jaskier’s cheeks are the same as the one he shed all those years ago. Elias’ death had been easily repaid, the boy’s father a vassal of Jaskier’s father, and no one had said anything when some gold had been exchanged over the cold body of the child. 

Jaskier shivers and shakes, and he doesn’t know how long he stays there, holding himself against the tree and crying. He loses complete sight of day or night, time meaning nothing to him anymore. The moon shines brightly in the sky, but he doesn’t see it. It is only when a hand gently settle on his head that he sees that dawn is close, the sky losing its nightly cloak as the sun starts to shimmer in the horizon. 

Someone lifts him up gently, and he finds himself drawn against someone’s chest. Before long, he realizes that it is Geralt holding him, the silver medallion hanging around his neck making Jaskier feel warm and slightly out of things. He is tired now, so tired, and he lets himself fall asleep against his friend, almost unwilling to do so but unable to resist. 

A warm cloth is pressed to his forehead, and his eyes flutter open. He is shivering, his whole body wrecked by waves of cold and flashes of intense heat, and he gasps a bit, pain spreading to his fingertips. It’s a blistering fire inside his body, something that wrecks him slowly and dutifully. It has been waiting inside him, burning him and eating at him over the latest century. He would yell of pain, but his voice has been torn from him, his throat raw with blood, so he can only cough, splatters of blood falling into the air and then back on himself. 

“Shh,” a voice soothes and a hand is on his cheek, gentle and delicate. “You’re alright. I’m here, you don’t need to fight it anymore.” 

Fight what? He doesn’t even know who is talking, too exhausted to pay much attention to what’s above him. He knows the voice, he thinks, and it stirs within him something cooling. As if the voice, the person who owns it rather, is responsible for helping him, and has helped him before. He trusts that voice.

He doesn’t remember who he is, not really. There is the fire and the ice fighting in his veins, but who is he? He wants to dig claws into himself, to shake who he is out of this deep slumber, but he can’t. He is broken and shattered, sealed away from his own self, wrecked away by memories that tear at him. 

_“Come here, boy,” a rough hand moved him, and his little body stumbled forward. He was only four, so small and delicate, his skin a ghastly green that shone under the moonlight. On his shoulder, the tight grip marred his skin, made it turn purple, and he winced in pain. Why was he hurting him? Julian had done nothing wrong, he had just been sleeping, holding Sir Lancelot against him._

_“What’s happening, daddy?” He yawned and walked behind his father. “Did I do something bad?”_

_His father scoffed. “Something bad. You were born, you little bastard, that’s what you did wrong.”_

_The words cut deep into his flesh, knives well aimed at the child the Viscount of Lettenhove was holding. Julian was shaking now, the cool air of the winter’s night keeping him cold and terrified. His feet stumbled on the snow and rocks that littered the forest path. What were they doing outside? Why did his father want him to go outside so late? Merrian said Julian had to be sleeping as soon as the sun set, and he shouldn’t get out of bed unless if it was an emergency. Julian hadn’t seen Merrian when his father had woken him up. She never closed the door between her room and Julian’s, always making sure the boy could see her if he woke up during the night._

_The door had been closed tonight, and the handle had been darker than it should have been, but Julian had been taken out of his bed roughly by his father, and he hadn’t worried more. Now, he worried about the cold and the lack of light, wondering when he would be able to go back to bed, and if he would be allowed to have a hot cocoa before bed. Mommy said he shouldn’t drink chocolate before bed, but Julian liked it._

_“Where is Mommy?” He was still stumbling as he followed, or rather was getting dragged, but he was doing his best. “Is she coming too?”_

_“Your mother isn’t coming near you anytime soon,” Julian’s father had spat out the words as they entered a clearing, and he had thrown his son in the middle of it. “Now shut your mouth and stop asking fucking questions!”_

_Julian hit a stone table roughly, and new hands, colder than even the snow, had settled on his shoulders. “Well, what a promising boy,” the man had said, and his eyes had glinted in the moonlight._

_They had tied him to the table and he had screamed, screamed until his lungs felt like they were going to cave under all the weight of his sadness and the strength of his pain. They scraped his skin everywhere, incisions made to his feet, hands, legs, even to his torso. He was marked all over by the blade in the mage’s hand, but it wasn’t the worst. He kept crying out for his father, asking for his help, and then calling out for his mother, begging her to come at the very least, but no one helped him. They drained him of his blood, and they kept draining him, and they chanted. The mage and his assistant were looking ravenous with his blood and delighted with the enchantments they were weaving, and Jaskier felt himself die, over and over._

_When he woke up in the morning, his skin was a delicate white and there was no scars to mark what they had done to him. The only sign of what they had done to him was a seal underneath his hair. His magic, his existence, everything had been erased from him. He was no longer a fae, but the son of the Viscount of Lettenhove. For the first time, his father smiled proudly when he was escorted to the dining room by one of the maids._

_His mother’s seat remained empty._

Jaskier emerges from the memories with a scream this time, and when he moves his arm to try and soothe his own panicking heart, he sees a flash of green before the pain. He is himself again, and when he manages to settle his eyes, to stop from looking around wildly, he sees white and golden shifting. **Geralt**.

This is Geralt. This is his witcher, his friend, his best friend, the man who rescued him a thousand times over and whom he saved half as much. The one who confessed the previous night (or has it been longer? Jaskier can’t think of that now, he is so tired already) to loving him. The one who makes Jaskier’s heart ache and weep and want. 

“Geralt,” he manages to rasp out, but his voice is strange. It’s broken and raw, and he realizes that he probably has been screaming for longer than he thought. His throat hurts again, but he manages to grab Geralt’s hand and holds on to it, his eyes meeting Geralt’s and not letting go. 

The fondness and worry there are nearly overwhelming, and he tightens his hold onto Geralt’s hand. The witcher frowns, but he presses a light kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. 

“I’m here. I’m not leaving you, I promise.” Geralt’s eyes are half closed now, and his forehead gently falls against Jaskier’s. “I’m always going to be here for you.” 

_He loves me._ The thought comes back to haunt Jaskier, but he fights the rising panic this time. Geralt is the best man Jaskier has ever met. He is kind and gentle with those who allow him to, and Jaskier knows him better than he has ever known anyone. He feels safe with his witcher, safe and protected, and he won’t let memories of his father- no, of the Viscount - take that away from him. Geralt loves him, and that is… That’s beautiful. It’s beautiful and tender, and Jaskier doesn’t know just yet what to do with it, but he’ll figure it out. 

He closes his eyes, his fingers still holding on tight to Geralt’s hand, and he falls back to a sleepless dream. 

The next time he wakes up, he doesn’t feel the burning pain anymore. He doesn’t feel great either, but it is more a lulling pain, an old pain woken up by a long day’s ache. The warmth he feels is due to the blankets accumulating over him, and to the roaring fire in the nearby chimney. Someone is by his side, and he is still holding onto their hand. It doesn’t take long for him to realize that it is Geralt who is sitting next to him, hand in his own, and head on his bed as he sleeps as well. 

Jaskier blinks awake, and he looks at his friend, letting himself feel for the first time in ages. His heart is beating wildly, erratic movements in his ribcage, but he feels more at peace than he can ever remember. The memories that haunted him are still there, but he is slowly making his peace with them, and they aren’t hurting him. 

The green tint of his skin is taken into account, and he sighs slowly, a soft sound that he keeps to himself as to not wake up Geralt. He isn’t human, or at least not the half human he thought he was. He isn’t just an eighth of a fae the way he had believed himself to be either. He remembers his mother, the way her skin shone slightly green in the sun, the way her cheeks lit up with a purple glow when she laughed as she played with him. It is strange, that he remembers her this way, when he hasn’t seen her since his childhood. She had left shortly after his fourth birthday and— 

_“Your mother isn’t coming near you any time soon.”_ His father’s voice rings out in his head, and sudden hatred floods him. What had the fucking bastard done to her? If he has hurt her, even a tenth of what he had done to Jaskier, the bard will learn how to rise the dead simply to inflict upon him a fate worse than death. 

“Calm down, my dear,” a woman says from the door, and when he turns to her, he startles at the bold blue of her skin. 

“You are not human,” he breathes out, relieved to find his voice back.

She chuckles and walks forward, holding in her hands a bowl and a tankard. “Observant, aren’t you? I could say the same of you though.” 

“I’m… I think I am a fae?” He hesitates over the words as she extends him the bowl. It is filled with a strange mixture of herbs and vegetables, decorated with some flowers. He finds himself strangely salivating for it. “What are you?” 

“A fae as well,” she smiles gently and helps him sit up. Geralt is so deeply asleep he doesn’t wake as Jaskier moves his hand away from him, so that he can hold the bowl and pick up the food with his right hand. “A river fae, while you are a woodland fae.” 

“There are different types of fae?” The food is delicious, and he eats it ravenously, his empty stomach roaring happily. 

“There are,” the woman confirms. “Your partner told me you didn’t know much of your heritage, but I didn’t think it was this bad… My name is Nen, and who might you be?”

“My… Geralt didn’t tell you?” 

“He was so exhausted, I helped him find sleep after I helped you find your way back to the present, and we had little chance for a discussion in depth. He obviously cares deeply for you, although I’m sorry if I offended you.” 

“No,” Jaskier rushes to shake his head. “Not offend. I’m just… My name is Jaskier, and I thought until recently that I was the son of the Viscount of Lettenhove and—“ 

He is stopped by Nen’s gasping, her blue skin flashing a bright red. “You are Zinnia’s son! The Lettenhove son, the boy who was stolen from her! Oh, the stories everyone heard, the sorrow Zinnia Sh’Aente, daughter of Lindenwood!” 

“You know my mother…?” Jaskier sits up further, finishing his bowl. “Where is she? She’s alive?” 

“I don’t know her, but I’ve heard her story many times… Every fae on the Continent and beyond has! Your mother has been moving the earth and the sky to find you again, but you were thought dead until now…” 

“She looked for me?” He feels ridiculous, like a child who is being handed out a sweet but is expecting a reprimand for taking it. “You are sure of that?” 

“Yes,” Nen assures him and extends him the tankard now. “Drink that, dear boy. I will have you sent back to your mother and-“ 

“No.” Jaskier shrinks back and looks at Geralt’s sleeping form. “I can’t… I can’t leave him. He… He has saved me many times, and despite our differences, he has amended for the wrong that has happened between us and… I… he is my friend.” 

“Your… friend.” Nen tilts her head to the side. “He loves you.” 

“I know.” 

“And you…” She stops talking and sighs. “There is much healing you need to do. I should leave you to it.”

Jaskier nods and takes the tankard she has been extending to him for the last few moments. “What’s in this?” 

“Just some healing brew, nothing that will harm you, dear boy.” She smiles, and he trusts her, without really knowing why. “You need rest, Jaskier. I will come to check up on you later, and we may talk more about your mother then.” 

“You will come back then?” He looks at her hesitantly. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done already.” 

“I have done nothing but help a fellow fae finding the way he has been wrenched away from.” Nen places a delicate kiss on his cheek and smiles again, before she leaves the room. He watches her leave and doesn’t say anything else, only taking a few sips of the beverage in the tankard. 

It is sweet to the taste, sweet and delicious, and he can’t help himself from drinking the whole tankard of it. It satisfies a need in him he hadn’t even been aware had been there, and he breathes easier when he is finished with it. Whatever it had been, the floral taste of it sticks to his palate and he enjoys it for a few more minutes, closing his eyes and savouring it. 

When he closes his eyes, he sees his mother dancing and twirling, running happily on one of the beaches that had bordered their propriety in Lettenhove. She had been wild, his mother, and while he can barely remember anything about her, he remembers her laughter. Her blond hair had always floated in the air, surrounding her and making her seem like she belonged elsewhere. 

Thinking back to it now, she had belonged elsewhere, with her beautiful green skin under the sun, and her purple eyes. She had lifted him in her arms and laughed as she called him her starlight. 

“Jaskier?” Geralds voice is rough with sleep, but worry peaks through. “Is there something wrong?” 

He blinks his eyes open, and only then does he realize that there are tears falling out of his eyes and rolling onto his cheeks. He is crying, crying because of memories that he had completely forgotten until now. Geralt is there though, and Jaskier allows himself a moment of weakness, falling into his friend’s arms and letting himself sob. He mourns the loss of his mother, the loss of himself, the way he had been robbed of his heritage and of his own reality, just to suit better the desire of one selfish humans. 

“I understand why you hate humans,” he hiccups into Geralt’s shirt as the witcher holds him. “They are vile, mean, and they only hurt us and—“ 

“You know that’s not true,” Geralt says soothingly, his broad hand caressing Jaskier’s hair. “You have thought yourself to be mostly human your whole life, and you behaved wonderfully. You have been with countless human women, and have befriended hundreds of men. You know that they are not all vile and mean. I don’t know who hurt you, what you are not telling me, but I know those words are spoken out of anger, and you will regret them later.” 

Jaskier hates when Geralt is right like this, so he bites the shirt-covered shoulder in front of him, and tries to force himself to stop sobbing. His teeth sink into flesh, and blood is drawn out, and he startles, trying to move away, to stop hurting Geralt. But the witcher isn’t letting go. 

“I don’t care if you bite me,” Geralt whispers, and it makes Jaskier sob even harder. “I don’t care if you hurt me. I’m staying with you. I promised you I wouldn’t leave you.” 

It takes a long time for Jaskier to fully calm down, and when he does so, he realizes that the bite wound he had inflicted on Geralt’s shoulder is already closed, only a silver bite mark staying there. 

“You’re healed already,” he states, astonished, and Geralt shrugs. “This isn’t your usual rate of healing. I would know, I’m the one who deals with your wounds most of the time.” 

“And ever since we have met, I’ve healed faster. You have a healing touch, Jaskier, I thought you knew. Perhaps you also have healing tears. Wouldn’t surprise me.” 

“It would surprise _me_!” Jaskier’s voice is high pitched and he finally manages to move away ever so slightly from Geralt. He can’t help but stay in contact with him though, their hands holding onto one another almost desperately. “I don’t understand what is happening to me and you are behaving as if it is all normal! As if I am not a completely different person now!” 

“You’re not,” Geralt says. “You are Jaskier, the bard. My best friend.” 

“How… How can you love me, when I am like this? I am not even… human. I am not even like you!” Jaskier gestures at his skin, at the scars that litter his hands and arms from the ritual the Viscount had forced upon him. “I’m a monster and you should be hunting me and killing me, not hugging me!” 

“What if I want to hug you?” Geralt tilts his head. “And how do you know I love you?” 

Jaskier bites his lips. Damn it. “You told me so. I gave you some poppyseed milk and I must have brought out too much of the relaxing and healing properties, because you were completely out of things, and you started saying things like I was the most beautiful person you had ever met, or that I had a beautiful voice and I— I know it must have all been due to the drug in your body but I thought, perhaps… Perhaps you really meant it?” 

The tenderness in Geralt’s eyes is overwhelming again, and he nods. “Of course I really mean it. I should have told you years ago, but I didn’t really understand what my feelings for you were until this winter, when Ciri and I had a talk and- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I can stop!” 

“No, no,” Jaskier says through another sob. “Please, don’t stop. You don’t understand what this means to me but… I want to hear it.” 

So Geralt talks some more. He explains everything, from the way they had been behaving around one another, and the way he had started to realize that he was in love with Jaskier. The explanation is long, but Geralt doesn’t shy away from it and Jaskier doesn’t try to escape it either. Rather, he keeps holding onto Geralt’s hand, and he listens. 

“I half-believed that my feelings might be returned, with how … Well, with how throughout the years you have taken care of me and stayed by my side relentlessly. I thought that perhaps it meant that you loved me as well. I am sorry if I was presumptuous.” 

“I don’t know if I love you,” Jaskier answers truthfully. “I don’t know how to be… me. I don’t know what it means to be me anymore. I know… I know that whatever it is that I feel for you, it’s strong. I want to stay by your side, and to help you, and I’ve always wanted that. But I don’t know if it is the love that you speak of… I don’t really know what’s love. When I was younger…” 

He swallows his words, tries to stop the tears from falling. He fails though, and Geralt’s thumbs gently brush them away. He can’t help but close his eyes, leaning into the touch. Geralt has always made him feel safe, even when they were arguing and yelling at one another. Geralt is someone he had always thought he could be entirely himself with. Maybe that is love. 

“What happened?” Geralt asks gently. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.” 

It’s strange, to see Geralt so attuned to feelings, but Jaskier knows his witcher. He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t care, if he didn’t truly love Jaskier. And after everything that has happened between them, Jaskier knows that Geralt might be the only person he trusts with this. He takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes closed as he starts talking. 

The ritual, his mother, Elias, everything falls out of him. Just like Geralt had opened his heart to him, Jaskier lets the witcher into his memories, into what he had forgotten had happened. He can’t share the memories, can’t show what had happened, but he can speak about them, and he can trust Geralt to hold him through this and to take care of him. 

By the time he is done, Geralt’s jaw is so tight that from where he is cuddled against his chest, Jaskier can feel the teeth grinding inside the man’s mouth. 

“Is the Viscount dead?” Geralt’s voice is level, but Jaskier can hear the hatred in it, the pure, unfiltered rage. 

“He is. Died in a hunting accident a couple of years ago. I’m the one with the title now.” 

“Good,” Geralt says and his arms tighten around Jaskier. “Good. He doesn’t deserve to be alive.” 

A rush of happiness at hearing that makes Jaskier feel guilty, but he pushes the feeling away. The man he had thought his father had abused him his whole life. He had had a blood ritual performed on Jaskier when he had only been four years old to remove all trace of his fae parentage, and to hide that Jaskier was not his son. And when Jaskier had kissed a boy, he had… 

“I wish I had killed him myself,” Jaskier whispers against Geralt’s shirt. “I know it makes me a bad person but—“ 

“No.” Geralt answers roughly. “It doesn’t make you a bad person. After everything he did to you, it doesn’t make you a bad person. You want revenge, and you want him to be held accountable for his actions. I’m sorry that you’ll never get that. I’m sorry he did all this, I’m sorry you went through all this.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jaskier whispers again, his voice unable to grow louder as he feels the emotions of the day catching up to him. “It was long before we met.” 

“I am sorry that no one came to rescue you then. I am sorry that you went through all this alone, and that it left you in such a state that my ill-advised declaration caused you to relive those memories.” 

“Do you… Do you think that I like men then?” Jaskier moves away from Geralt, refusing to look into the witcher’s eyes. “Do you think it’s possible that I am… like you?” 

“It’s possible,” Geralt answers after a brief pause. “But I can’t know for you. It might take some time, and it will doubtlessly be difficult, but you are the only one who can know if what you feel for a man is the same as what you feel for a woman.” 

There lies the heart of the issue. The more Jaskier thinks about it, the less Jaskier is convinced he actually _likes_ women. He likes talking to them, yes, and he likes knowing that he makes the people he is with happy, but beyond that… He doesn’t care for the women he is with much. They have always been a passing distraction, a way for him to distract himself when he starts thinking too morosely. Jaskier has always enjoyed sex, he won’t deny it, and women have always been willing with him. It was always so easy for him to fall in bed with a woman, to leave in the morning and not think about the pit in his stomach. 

He had always bedded more women when he had been around Geralt as well, and he might be starting to understand why. He remembers seeing woman looking at Geralt and desiring him, and he can feel even now the way his stomach twisted and churned when Geralt returned the affection, even somewhat. After all, whenever they had visited brothels together, Jaskier had always moved away from Geralt before he could see him pick one of the women. Better to not see it and ignore than to deal with the terrible ache he was feeling. 

“Does it… Does it hurt, when you see me with someone else?” 

Geralt seems surprised by that, tilting his head to the side as he thinks. “It’s more of… an ache, I suppose? Your happiness matters more to me than you being single.” 

“How do you know you love me?” 

Geralt chuckles a bit. “Only heavy discussions tonight I see. Are you sure you don’t want to wait until the morning before I answer, get some more rest? You have gone through some pretty traumatic reminders in the last few hours already.” 

“I want to know,” Jaskier insists. “I need to know. Please.”

“Alright, alright. I know I love you because… I like being with you. I like listening to you sing and talk, and I like seeing you happy and performing. When you aren’t with me, I feel an emptiness at my side, and I miss you. Being around you feels so natural to me that I sometimes forget there are moments when you are not traveling with me. Most of all though, when I think about you … I feel safe. And happy.” 

Jaskier thanks him in a quiet breath, and he tries to think if he has ever felt this for anyone. Besides Geralt… He has never loved anyone the way Geralt is describing. He has never wanted to be held deep into the night by anyone else than Geralt, has never wanted to be seen vulnerable like this in front of anyone but Geralt. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he darts forward and presses his lips to Geralt’s. The witcher’s lips are soft, softer than Jaskier would have imagined, and even the brief contact makes lightning run through him. He draws back to see Geralt’s stunned expression. 

“What was that?”

“A kiss?” Jaskier doesn’t stumble through the word, but he feels something akin to shame rising through him. Embarrassment perhaps? “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I—“ 

“Can I kiss you?” Geralt takes his hand in his own again. “If you don’t like it, I promise I won’t ask again, and we can go back to pretending this never happened. You seem to be wanting to… learn more though, and if I can help you, even just as a friend, I would be happy to do so.” 

Jaskier smiles a bit and nods. Geralt is, as he has always been, more preoccupied by someone else's feelings than his own. It's touching, if a bit concerning, but at least in this, Jaskier truly recognizes his friend. His more than friend? 

Geralt's lips slowly touch his own, and it is such a gentle kiss, full of a tenderness that Jaskier has never expected from anyone, that he can't help but lean into it. Kissing Geralt is a revelation. It's a wonder, a sheer delight. The brush of lips, which had before been nothing but a necessity when being with women, something he didn't pay much attention to beyond the fact that it brought him some affection, is now an explosion inside him. It sends gold rushing through him, and he follows Geralt's lips when the witcher pulls back, eagerly demanding another kiss. With a gently swipe of his thumb on Jaskier's cheek, Geralt complies and kisses him again. 

Jaskier didn't know that kissing could feel so good. He had no idea that he could love this so much, want it so greedily. He does though, wants to feel Geralt's lips on his own forever. It is not just want anymore, it is a need, something desperate that claws at his chest. 

After a few more breathless kisses, he pulls back, and he feels his cheeks wet with tears. Geralt's eyes are panicked, but Jaskier isn't. 

"Happy tears," he reassures Geralt before the man can apologize again. "You make me so happy I couldn't stop from crying." 

Geralt sighs of relief and leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Jaskier's lips again. "So I can keep doing this?" 

"As much as you want," Jaskier nods with a smile. "I still don't know if I love you, but I know you make me happy, happier than I've ever been. I feel safe when I'm with you, safe and loved, and I want you to feel the same way around me..." 

"You don't have to know just yet," Geralt reassures him. "You can even tell me that you don't when you've figured it all out, and I will understand. Your happiness and your safety are my first concerns." 

"You should learn to be more selfish," Jaskier breathes out in wonder. "What would happen if I did not want the same things for you?" 

"I suppose I would be doomed," Geralt shrugs. "It doesn't matter though, since you do also want those things for me." 

"Yes," Jaskier's voice comes out in a jumbled, breathless tone. "You know, you are overwhelming sometimes. You are so... good." 

Geralt leans forwards, pecks his lips. "So are you. Thank you, though." 

They talk for a little longer, but Jaskier's body is starting to tire out after so much emotions, and he knows Geralt enough to see the tiredness in that golden gaze. 

"Come lay with me?" 

Despite the newness of this, it feels right when Geralt gets on the bed and wraps an arm around him. Jaskier fits his head underneath the witcher's chin and sighs contentedly. Underneath him, he can feel Geralt's slow heartbeat, and he falls asleep to that reassuring sound. The hand caressing his back never falters. 

Nen is back in the morning, her eyes shining with amusement as she notices the way Jaskier and Geralt are cuddling on the bed. She's carrying a bowl and a tankard again. 

"I see that you're feeling better," she says conversationally to Geralt, whose ears take a slight red tinge. "How about you, son of Lindenwood?" 

It is rather strange to be referred to this way. Jaskier remembers the river fae calling his mother this way, but he still is so little idea of what it means, who she is, what he himself is. 

"I prefer Jaskier, if you don't mind." He takes the bowl as Geralt gets back up. "Where do you think you are going?"

"Giving the two of you some privacy?" Geralt shrugs. "I'll get myself something to eat as well." 

"Oh. Right." Jaskier wants to say he isn't disappointed, but he is. Although he understands, there is a part of him that loathes being separated from Geralt even for a second.

"I'll be back as fast as I can," Geralt promises and kisses him lightly. "I'm just going downstairs." 

Jaskier nods and lets him leave, turning back to his own bowl and Nen. The same mixture as the day before is in the bowl and he starts eating it slowly as the fae smiles and sits on a chair. 

"I'm glad to see you doing so well, Jaskier. And I'm glad that you have understood yourself better. The things you have been through, dear boy..." 

"I know. I don't... I don't need reminders. I want to hear about my mother, if that's alright with you? You said that everyone knew she was looking for me. But no fae has ever approached me." He twists a piece of salad between his fingers, trying not to let the hurt shine through his words. "Why? Wouldn't they have been looking for me if she was talking about me?" 

A deep sigh escapes Nen. "They were. We all were. But Zinnia spoke of a fair-haired, green-skinned boy with eyes of the sea, and the seals your father had placed on you were strong enough to give you a human appearance, although your eyes did not change. When I arrived here yesterday, I did not know you were her son, and until you spoke of the Viscount, I didn't realize either. Your hair is still brown, although I believe that comes more from your own desire." 

"So... what do you know of my mother? Is she still... alive?" 

"Yes," Nen assures him with a smile. "As is your true father. The fae your mother truly loved, and the one your father tried stealing her from. The Viscount had her cursed away from you, I imagine at the same time as he sealed your powers and your true identity away, and she could no longer use any blood magic to track you, and neither could your father. Would you want to hear the ballad of Zianna? She wrote and sang that song to spread news of your loss, and to ask for help." 

"My mother sang?" Jaskier is jumping from surprise to surprise, and he doesn't know if he will ever stop. This is all so much.

"I've heard she has one of the most beautiful voice on the Continent," Nen smiles gently. "That is why her name is Zinnia Sh'aente. Zinnia the singer. She's the pride of Lindenwood." 

"I... I want to hear it. Please." 

Nen nods and when she starts singing, her voice is farther away from the young voice of a fae in her prime. Through her voice shines Jaskier’s mother, addressing him one last message, one last hope. He finds himself chocking with how much he needed to hear that. The words, spoken in Elder, are easy for him to understand, and he loses himself in the melody. It feels as if warm arms have settled around him, holding him and loving him. While she sings, it makes Jaskier feel closer to his mother, and to himself, than he ever has before.

Tears are rolling down his cheeks by the time she is down and he chuckles. “I feel like the only thing I do lately is crying.” 

“You are learning a lot of new things,” Nen says softly and gives him the tankard with the same drink as the day before. “Drink some of this, and I’m sure you’ll get better quickly.” 

“What is it? You never really answered yesterday.” 

“You are curious, do you know that?” She is laughing a bit. “I suppose you do have a right to know. It is simply honey and water infused with jasmine and hawthorne. It is bound to help anyone with fae blood get better, and it seems to have worked like a charm on you.” 

Jaskier nods and drinks it just as Geralt walks back inside the room. 

“Everything alright?” He closes the door behind himself and comes to sit next to Nen at Jaskier’s bedside. 

“Perfectly fine,” Nen answers. “Jaskier will be back on his feet by tomorrow, I expect. A truly extraordinary recovery, I have rarely seen that.” 

“You are sure he doesn’t need more?” Geralt worries, looking back and forth between the two fae. “He was out for almost four days, he probably need more rest than just two days.” 

“I’m fine,” Jaskier intervenes. “I’m just tired, and I don’t intend on running around and getting into troubles just yet. Though, when I am with you…”

“You attract more monsters than I do,” Geralt points out, and smiles when Jaskier laughs loudly. “Will you be alright to travel again?” 

“I will be more than alright. I was thinking however…” Jaskier looks at Nen, who tilts her head slightly to the side. “If you could tell me more about where I will find my mother? I would like to meet her.” 

“I can demand a portal be opened for you and your companion, if you wish to,” the blue-skinned fae offers. “It would cut down your travel time and-“ 

“No portals,” Jaskier and Geralt answer at once, and Nen looks intrigued. Jaskier grins a bit. “Geralt has a personal dislike of portals. They make him sick.” 

The witcher sighs and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t defend himself any further. Rather, he settles for giving to Jaskier an annoyed look, but all his fondness for the bard is betrayed through his eyes. It makes something in Jaskier’s chest flutter, and he wonders if this is what Geralt felt, throughout all those years, whenever Jaskier touched him or looked at him fondly. How could he have missed this about his own self, about Geralt? This… This feels like the largest thing in the world now that he is aware of it. 

“And I think it might do me some good to travel and have some time to … reflect.” He adds to Nen. “Is this Lindenwood far from here?” 

“It’s certainly not near,” the fae answers and looks at Geralt. “You wouldn’t happen to have a map, would you? I could point you to where you need to go. Or I could accompany you, if you so wished. I have been meaning to travel in the same direction for the past couple of months. It would be a fortunate opportunity.” 

Geralt and Jaskier exchange a look, and there isn’t much need for talking there. They have known how to read each other for years now, long before any real trouble happened. Long before the Banquet of Cintra, even. It hadn’t taken much time for them to be able to know what the other wanted in a glance, although it had often happened that they willingly ignored what they saw. Jaskier has insisted on going with on so many hunts numbers fail to give it a proper count, and Geralt had often ignored Jaskier’s pleas to rest in an inn in the middle of the day. 

“It would be ideal, if you could do so,” Jaskier answers, despite the twinge in his heart. He will have time alone with Geralt plenty after this is all resolved. “Are you sure you are willing to leave your home for this?” 

“It’s just a little trip,” Nen shrugs with a smile. “So, when will we be leaving?” 

They talk a bit more about the details before Nen excuses herself, and Jaskier tugs on Geralt’s hand until he comes back in bed. It’s strange how familiar and comforting this already is for Jaskier. Being with Geralt had always made him feel safe, but being in his arms like this, being enclosed and protected from everything? It makes him feel like he belongs here, like Geralt’s heartbeat is the sound he has been waiting for all those years. He falls back asleep without even noticing. 

Two days later, Geralt comes back with a black mare sporting a sleek saddle and he extends the reins to Jaskier. 

“What’s this?” 

“Your horse. Her name’s Hellebore.” Geralt pushes Jaskier onto the saddle gently. “It will be better than walking for you.” 

“I am healed up, you are aware of that, right?” Jaskier smiles softly and caresses the soft mane of the mare regardless. “She’s gorgeous. Thank you, Geralt.” 

The witcher gives him a soft look and kisses his knuckles lightly. Nen is waiting for them at the entrance of the village, a white stallion at her side. It is not a normal animal, Jaskier is certain of that. He can’t tell exactly why, but there is something about the shine of the animal’s coat, the way its eyes shine with an intelligence so bright it almost feels human. When he gives a questioning look to the fae, she grins and shrugs. 

“I’m sure you’ll find that your people have their own mysteries that I cannot teach you about.” 

Jaskier doesn’t doubt that, and he learns much during the two weeks it takes to travel to Lindenwood. Nen is a well of knowledge, and although she can be secretive, Jaskier enjoys her company. She has also taken to establishing her own camp a bit farther away from Geralt and Jaskier, who take advantage of those moments to keep exploring their blossoming relationship.

Beyond kisses and cuddling, Jaskier doesn’t feel quite comfortable doing anything, and Geralt doesn’t push. The witcher is a quiet, loving presence at his side, and although they still bicker and argue, there is always the time for a kiss afterwards. Those moments and touches cement the knowledge that Jaskier was already growing certain of: he loves Geralt. He doesn’t quite know how to say it however, doesn’t know how to express all the love and devotion that run through him.

Lindenwood is an impressive forest, undeserving of its title of “wood”. To Jaskier, it feels more akin to Brokilon, full of wild magic and wilder creatures, giving to its visitor the impression of stepping into another world, one thick with the wisdom of years long gone. 

“Are you ready to meet your mother?” Nen asks him as they step through the forest’s threshold. “Your people are sure to have spotted us by now, and they will have recognized you as their kin. Your mother will know that it is you as well, your blood belongs here.” 

Is he ready? He has had only two weeks and a half to get used to the idea that his mother is alive, that his life is now completely different. The only thing that hasn’t changed is… 

“Can I have a moment alone with Geralt, please? I’ll make it quick, I promise.” 

Nen nods and walks with her mount further ahead, out of earshot. Geralt turns a questioning look to Jaskier, who breathes nervously and then reaches up, kissing him lightly. 

“I love you,” he says quickly, before he can change his mind and not say it. “Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I love you more than I thought possible. I didn’t even know I could really love someone before you. Thank you for being by my side and loving me.” 

Geralt’s smile is radiant, but he calms himself quickly, dragging Jaskier in for a longer, deeper kiss. “I love you too, my song bird. You do not have to thank me for loving you. I adore you.” 

They exchange a few more kisses, short and sweet, and then Jaskier withdraws with regret. They have to keep going, and Hellebore and Roach are getting impatient next to them, both mares neighing. It must be the strange atmosphere that reigns underneath the trees getting to them, and Jaskier can’t blame them for it. Even if he feels something strangely familiar at being here, which he attributes to what Nen just said, to his blood belonging here, he can’t help his nerves. Geralt captures his hand in his own and intertwines their fingers. 

“It will go well.” He says this with so much certainty that Jaskier can only believe him. 

Lindenwood is quiet as they walk through it, the only sounds coming from them. Even the birds are quiet, although they see them stare from their branches and look down, almost curiously. They have that same shine in their eyes that Nen’s horse does, and suddenly Jaskier realizes what that is. Those animals aren’t just animals. They were crafted by the fae, existing to serve and to help them through their lives. This is why they are so bright-eyed. In them lives the fae’s spirit. 

Shadows appear in his sight and suddenly they are surrounded by five fae, their skin a deeper shade of green than Jaskier’s and their eyes shadowed with red paint. Despite the spears and swords in their hands, they don’t look hostile. Rather, they look intrigued, watching between Jaskier, Nen and Geralt with quick glances. 

“A witcher and two fae, how strange. Welcome, sister of the rivers.” One of them say, bowing to Nen. “And you must be Zinnia’s son.” 

“I am,” Jaskier answers, voice trembling. “So, she’s here? My mother… She’s really here?” 

The fae who first talked nods. “Come, your mother awaits. Your companions are most welcome to come with as well. Your parents have been expecting you for many years now.”

_Your parents._ Not just his mother, his father is there too. His real parents. The ones the Viscount had kept away from him, the ones he had sealed Jaskier away from. The shaking of his hands is only stopped by Geralt’s gentle grip on him. They follow the fae through the woods, Nen chatting with them, but Geralt and Jaskier remain silent. 

They arrive in a large clearing, where a fire is built, large and communal, and fae, young and old, are gathered around it. Music is played by unseen people, and Jaskier stares. Amazement doesn’t begin to cover what he feels as he discovers this world, and he can’t get enough of it. 

“Julian?” 

The voice is small, betraying a fear that this is not real, and when he turns towards the source of it, he stops breathing. The woman to whom the voice belongs is several shade lighter than anyone else, and her purple eyes bring back memories of his early childhood. She’s followed by a man, as tall as she is, with flowing auburn hair and blue eyes just like Jaskier’s own. 

“Mother.” The word is breathed reverently, but he cannot make himself move. 

“Oh my sweet boy…” 

She moves forward carefully, her steps light. She’s looking to be about to cry, and Jaskier tries to let himself not fear that this is just a dream, a nightmare that his mind conjured up to torture him, but he can’t. This is too much, so much that he doesn’t know what to do with. He is regaining everything he lost during his time with the Viscount, all of it in such a short amount of time that it feels surreal. 

Geralt squeezes his hand and gently tugs him forward, before letting go of his hand. So Jaskier follows his lead, steps forward and looks at his mother. He takes in her great purple eyes, the way her hair float behind her as she walks closer. The man behind her is looking even more astonished than she does, and Jaskier knows that this is his true father. The eyes are not the only indication; his nose, the way he holds himself as well… This is the man her father loathed and wanted to erase out of Jaskier’s life. 

A trembling hand reaches for him, touching his cheek, and the softness of it is familiar. The dam that has been waiting to burst falls down instantly, and he finds himself sobbing in his mother’s arms, holding her tightly. 

“You are home,” Zinnia whispers through her own tears as she embraces him and holds him. “You are home, my son.” 

As he smells her gentle scent of lavender, thinks back to the way he woke up against Geralt’s chest, full of warmth and his heart beating with more love than ever before, he can’t help but agree. He is home, finally.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, don't hesitate to leave a comment or a kudos! They always make a writer's day <3 
> 
> You can also come check me out on tumblr (@saltytransidiot) !


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